Page 2 of The Grumpy Side of Paradise

Good thing, because she’s already surrounded by five or six women asking for selfies with her. I watch as she puts on her famous red-lipped grin for the camera. As soon as her admirers walk away, Georgia sees me, and her real smile comes out.

“Evie, girl!” She throws open her arms, and we run toward each other.

“Georgy!” I squeal. If she’s going to pull out the nickname I shed after college (I’m just Evelyn now), I have permission to use her nickname.

We hug tight, swaying back and forth, rocking each other like babies. There’s nothing better than a true friend—a kindred spirit, in the words of Georgia’s personal (though fictional), more gangly, look-alike and icon, Anne Shirley. Georgia knows me. She’s had a front-row seat to all my flaws and faults and yet still loves me. The only way the moment could be better is if our other roomie, Izzy Greene, could be here too.

“It’s so good to see you!” Georgia pulls away and looks me up and down. “What does your mom think about the blue?”

I pull my dark brown, blue-streaked hair over my shoulder. “She actually likes it.”

“Really?” Georgia’s eyebrows shoot up.

“Oh, girl, we’ve got a lot to catch up on. Mama Gwen’s a new woman since she met Roger.” I pull open the door to Pedro’s and wave her inside, breathing in the smoky, chipotle smell.

“Your mom has a man? And you don’t?” Georgia’s perfectly arched eyebrows are still raised, and they may never come down if I tell her everything about Mom’s transformation from tight-bunned (hair, not butt), church librarian at her dad’s church to frizzy-haired, world-traveler.

“You’ve got to try the pulled pork taco,” I tell her while walking to the counter and away from her questions.

“I’m vegetarian.”

“Again?”

She nods while looking at the chalkboard menu. “Maybe I’ll get nachos.”

The thing I love about Georgia is that she never pushes me to talk. She instinctively knows when to dig and when to let things go. She also knows all the dirt on my family. When I’m ready, I’ll bring them up, and she’ll be the person I go to. But today is not that day. I want to keep things fun in the few short hours we have together.

“What are you having?” she asks. “And don’t say you’ll buy because I’m not letting you.”

I don’t argue. I also add a hibiscus iced tea to my order of tacos. If I thought she’d mind the extra expense, I wouldn’t, but the thing Georgia loves most about her success is being generous with it. She’s offered more than once to help me out when I’ve complained about finances.

After ordering, we carry our drinks to one of the skinny wooden tables to wait for our food. Georgia stops without putting down her drink. She doesn’t say another word until she’s thoroughly inspected the wood grain and veneer of the bar-high table.

“What do you think? Reclaimed wood?” She finally slides onto her metal bar stool and takes a sip of her drink.

“Yep. I asked.” I knew she’d appreciate it. The design is one of the main reasons I love this place. That and the cheapness of the food. “Okay, tell me what brought you to the city? Four years I’ve been trying to get you here, and you finally decide on a whim to come with only twenty-four-hours’ notice? What’s up?”

Her eyes are glowing in a way that could mean something really, really, good or something really,reallyrisky. Most likely both. She’s had a dozen ideas the last few years, most of which worked but some didn’t … including a podcast she and I did that never took off, never mind the hours and hours of editing I contributed and a box of equipment I sold at a loss when she shifted her focus to Instagram and TikTok.

“I’ve got an offer from HGTV for my own show.” She leans back, satisfied she’s shocked me, and almost falls off the barstool. She frantically grabs for the table to steady herself.

“That’s a stool, not a chair, Georgy.” I hold back my laugh, barely.

She scoots back on the stool. “Did you hear me? My own show! How cool is that?”

“Very cool. Even cooler, you came all the way to Brooklyn to tell me about it. I love that I get to hear the news in person.” Memories of the many coffee runs and other non-design work I’ve done in the past two years try to creep into my brain, but I swipe them away. I’m genuinely happy for my bestie.

“Evie, that’s not even the best news. Wait until—” she stops as a server approaches with our food.

Lupe slides a tray onto our table, and I thank her. I’ve been coming here long enough that I know the staff. Georgia, though, stays quiet until Lupe walks away. I’m not sure if she’s trying to build suspense, or she wants privacy. Either way, I’m wondering what else she came all the way from California to tell me.

“How much longer are you going to make me wait?” I hand Georgia her nachos and reach for my tacos.

“I want you to be on the show too.” Georgia smiles.

My mouth is open to take a bite of taco, but I stop midway.

“On TV?” Never in my life have I thought about being on TV. I wasn’t even allowed to watch TV when I was a kid—except forVeggie Tales. And Bob Vila; I’m a super fan ofThis Old House.

---